The Young Lords: an Alternate Version
by Aliana
Summary: This episode had so much potential, until the band of kids showed up . . . Here's an alternate version.


The Young Lords – alternate version  
  
  
The landing – if you could call it that – had scrambled his senses for several centons before Lieutenant Starbuck was able to remember *why* he had crashed. An ambush. Four Cylon raiders, unexpected, had dropped in out of nowhere, it had seemed, as he and Boomer had been nearing the end of their recon patrol. It had been so quiet and uneventful that he had even indulged in a bit of melancholy reflection, recalling the words of his old flight instructor.   
  
"Starbuck," he had said, imitating the voice of his academy instructor, "a viper pilot only flies three fighters: the one he trains in, the one he runs from, and the one he dies in. . ."  
  
Well, not today, he mused as he managed to orient himself and began to take stock of his situation. Most noticeable was the burning, stinging pain in his right thigh. A glance down revealed why – the force of the viper's impact had rammed the nose and about a third of the viper into the loose dirt at the edge of a marsh. Instruments had crumbled and exploded, tearing a long, jagged gash into his leg.   
  
Looking at it made it throb even more, so he forced his attention to opening the canopy. Not bothering with the normal release, he pressed the emergency switch and the canopy popped open. About three cenrimetrons. Cursing, he banged the switch again, and this time it was expelled free, as it should have been the first time. As the musty, humid air filled his nostrils, a building apprehension told him to hurry. The Cylons had to have been based on this planet, and it would have been pathetically easy to track his descent. They were close. He could just feel it. He had to get moving.  
  
Tossing his blackened and scorched helmet aside, he started to pull himself up. And froze as the pain from his thigh made his head swim and his stomach churn. Oh, God, he thought. Taking several deep breaths, he tried again, more slowly, the growing fear pumping enough adrenaline for him to drag himself up and over the edge of the cockpit. He slid down the side of his viper and collapsed into a heap on the sand.  
  
Taking a deep breath, Starbuck started to survey his surroundings. Then he heard it. The scrunching branches under heavy, tromping feet. The steady, low drone. Dragging himself up and glancing over the nose of his ship, he could see the flashes of sunlight off metal. Fighting the searing pain, he hobbled in the only direct he could go – into the murky pond water.  
  
God, it hurt! But the panic-induced drive to escape the approaching Cylons was greater. Starbuck stumbled into the muddy water and pushed himself as hard as he could. It felt like slogging through a dream, though, where the harder you try to move, the slower you go. The pond was not deep, but the bottom was slippery with the soft mud. He had no traction, and his right leg was next to useless. He grabbed at the wispy reeds and dragged himself forward with one foot, acutely aware that the monotone chorus of drones was growing closer and closer.   
  
Then he slipped and went under. Flailing wildly, he pulled himself to the surface, gasping for air, shaking the hair from his eyes, and swimming with his arms, desperate to keep moving. At last, he reached the opposite bank. But as he emerged from the water, the dead weight of his leg and the drenched clothing was beyond even adrenaline-driven panic. He stumbled for several more metrons, grabbing at the thin branches, moving forward more from momentum, than anything else, until he collapsed into the dirt and leaves on a gentle slope at the foot of a tree. Strength gone, he grasped at the injured leg, moaning and gasping for breath, hearing the enemy's relentless approach.   
  
Then he saw them, the sunlight flashing off their armor. The crunching of branches and leaves reached a crescendo, and the lead Cylon swung his laser through the overhanging leaves, then stopped, leveling his weapon at the lieutenant. Starbuck, fighting the feeling of sheer terror, raised his hands in surrender.  
  
For a brief moment, no one moved; the only sound was the incessant drone of the Cylons' red light, so loud, so close. The rest of the forest seemed deathly still. Then the lead Cylon stepped forward and placed the tip of the laser's bayonet against the lieutenant's chest.   
  
"Hey!" Starbuck breathed, fighting the horrible impression that he was about to be methodically impaled. "Let's not do anything that I might regret!"  
  
"Remove your weapons belt," It stated.  
  
Starbuck did not move. "Sure. Gladly. No problem," he said. "Except it'd be a lot easier without that thing poking me."  
  
The Cylon withdrew the laser several centimetrons. Biting his lip against the pain and ignoring the pounding heart in his chest, the lieutenant carefully unfastened his holster and leg strap. Before he could figure out how to remove it, though, a second Cylon grabbed the belt and pulled it out from beneath him. It took all of his resolve not to cry out, but he refused to give the enemy that satisfaction.   
  
The lead Cylon motioned with the laser. "On your feet, human."  
  
"That's easier said," Starbuck said through gritted teeth, "than done." He nodded towards his injured leg. He held his breath while the Cylon seemed to process the information. A moment later, without a word, it turned and moved away, while two more grabbed the lieutenant by the arms, pulled him effortlessly up, and slung him over the shoulders of yet another centurion. The motion made Starbuck's head and stomach swirl; the excruciating wave of pain sent him into unconsciousness.  
  
*****************  
He awoke to the sensation of someone repeatedly stabbing a knife into his thigh as he was jostled with every step the Cylon took. He groaned, opening his eyes to see the gleaming armor of the centurion in front of him, and he remembered his predicament. A quick glance around confirmed that it had not been just a bad dream; he was in the middle of a phalanx of Cylons, being carried none-too-comfortably, as they marched resolutely down a wide forest path.  
  
Between the pain in his leg and the feeling of nausea from the dizziness in his head, Starbuck could not contain the grunts and gasps. "Take it easy, will ya!" he finally blurted.   
  
"These humanoids are not well constructed," said the centurion in front of him. "They damage easily."  
  
"At least, we don't rust," quipped the lieutenant between groans, annoyed in spite of his situation.  
  
"Silence!"  
  
The conversation effectively closed, Starbuck decided not to push his luck. Instead, he tried to concentrate on figuring out where and which direction they were heading, noticing his surroundings, counting the mud spots on the Cylon ahead of him – anything to shut out the constant fiery burning in his thigh. Finally, the effort became too draining, and he closed his eyes, letting his head sag and bob. The pain was intermittently drowned out by the waves of nausea. Not much of an improvement, he thought, swallowing hard. Eventually, he drifted into a bleary, half-conscious state where the relentless drone from the Cylons merged with random memories -- nightmare images from the Destruction of the Colonies.  
  
********************  
Unobserved by the Cylons, a small band of humans, hidden by the trees and forest growth and moving almost without sound, trailed the phalanx as it marched onward. After a short while, they stopped, watching as the centurions disappeared over the crest of a hill. The group debated only briefly whether they should intervene and rescue the downed pilot – they had heard the crash and arrived at the marsh around the same time that the Cylons had. From that moment, they had followed and observed. Ambushing the Cylon patrol would be easy, but would also cost precious resources. They could not afford that, they decided, not now. Not without regret, they turned and headed back towards their well-hidden compound.  
  
********************  
  
Something was different, Starbuck realized. The sounds. More noises. Different noises -- electronic. Different, new smells. And the incessant, jarring marching had stopped. The lieutenant opened his eyes and saw the dark, blurred images of even more Cylons moving about. They were inside some sort structure, he finally figured. Before he could make any further sense of his surroundings, however, he was unceremoniously pulled from the centurion's shoulders. Two Cylons held him tightly, preventing him from crashing to the ground. Each had one arm wrapped around Starbuck's arms and a hand clamped over his wrists, thus supporting his full weight to keep him upright. His vision darkened as his head swam from the intense pain that coursed through his leg.   
  
"Well, well!" said a vaguely familiar voice. "The Colonial Warrior!" The voice was not the standard monotone drone of a centurion, and it sounded very pleased with itself.  
  
Starbuck squinted and saw the IL series Cylon gazing at him. The lights in its bulbous head were flashing in obvious excitement. Was it rocking back and forth in delight? He had only met one such robot before . . . and through his mental fog, he thought, for a moment, that he was back aboard Baltar's baseship. "Lucifer?" he asked, his voice a dry croak. Yet, that didn't seem right, either.  
  
"I am Spectre," stated the robot, its lights flashing what seemed an angry red. "How interesting that you know of my – associate – Lucifer."  
  
Starbuck's head was clearing just a bit. Was that a note of distaste in the robot's tone? He studied the Cylon in front of him, noticing, finally, that this one wore more reddish robes, not the blue that Lucifer had worn. Ah. . . Lucifer. In spite of his loathing for the Cylons, Starbuck had actually enjoyed his conversations with the witty IL series robot, when he had been a "guest" of Baltar not so many sectons ago. Lucifer, at one point, had explained the different classes and levels of Cylons. Starbuck had been curious that they actually had civilian Cylons. He had wondered what such a robot did in its leisure time. . .   
  
"Lieutenant." Spectre's voice snapped Starbuck's attention back to the present moment. He focused back on the robot. "I believe you could furnish me with some most useful information!" it continued. "And if you cooperate, you'll find your stay with us much more pleasant."  
  
This robot was definitely not Lucifer; its self-satisfaction was almost as nauseating as the lieutenant's own pain and dizziness. Starbuck managed a lopsided grin. "And what 'most useful information' would that be?" he asked, fighting to keep his head clear.  
  
"The present location of the Galactica and its Fleet." said Spectre, his voice rather triumphant.  
  
"Galactica?" Starbuck said with a straight face. "I'm from the Atlantia."  
  
"That is impossible. The Atlantia was destroyed at the Peace Conference." Spectre's tone was not quite as confident. "You and another viper craft were intercepted by my patrol."  
  
"We got lost during that battle and have been flying out into deep space ever since then."  
  
"That is not possible," Spectre stated. "You would never have had enough fuel –"  
  
"We've been lucky enough to find settlements and outpost along the way."   
  
Spectre's lights stopped for a moment before blinking rapidly. Starbuck could tell that the robot was becoming flustered. "Your insignia is that of the Galactica." it said.   
  
"Really? I need to speak to my tailor –"Both centurions jerked at the same time; Starbuck gulped to maintain his focus.  
  
"Tell me the Galactica's current location." Spectre's lights were flashing a bright, crimson red. "Or it will be most unpleasant for you!"  
  
"Okay, okay. But . . come closer . . ." Starbuck said weakly between deep breaths as his head and stomach began to swirl again, "so you can be . . . sure to hear . . ."   
  
Spectre, his lights now whirling purple in anticipation, moved forward and leaned close to the lieutenant's face, not wanting to miss a single coordinate.   
  
Starbuck gazed at the slanted eyes and weirdly full "lips" of the IL robot. "Okay," he breathed, and let go of the violent wave of nausea that had been building. The last image he saw, before slipping into unconsciousness, was Spectre reeling backwards, his arms flailing at the vomit that now covered his face and robes.  
  
**********************  
He awoke once more, slowly. This time, it was more difficult to fathom where he was; at the moment, he remembered nothing. The first sensation to penetrate his consciousness, though, was the smell – pungent, rotting, musky. It was enough to send the contents of his stomach up again. Someone, something, rolled him over onto his side. He gasped and opened his eyes, briefly, thought he saw a human face, before closing them again. The smell . . . Someone was speaking, but it sounded distant, unintelligible. He drifted off once more.  
  
The voices returned. In his mind, his dreams, he thought he heard a conversation. Something about needing water and medical supplies . . .   
  
Eventually, bit by bit, he returned to the conscious world. The smell, although, still putrid, no longer nauseated him. He was lying on his back once more. Beneath him, he thought he felt straw, and a cool cloth was brushing his forehead. His eyes flickered open, and he saw the blurred face of a human woman bending over him. "What –"  
  
"Don't speak," she said softly but firmly.  
  
Still confused, Starbuck stared around him. Dark stone walls, covered with damp moss, forming a small enclosure -- and wrought-iron bars, the telltale indication that he was in a cell. Dim light seeped through one small window in the wall. Around him, he saw the shapes of half a dozen other humans. He returned his gaze to the face above him. He frowned but did not speak.  
  
"I know you are confused," she said quietly, slowly. "You're – we're all – captives of the Tinheads. You were brought in last night. We were told to 'mend you' so that you would be fit to be, um, 'questioned.'"  
  
"'Tinheads'?" Starbuck whispered, still confused. "Oh. . ." Then he remembered. "The Cylons." Glancing down towards his thigh, he saw that it had been bandaged. It throbbed, but the pain was not as intense as before.  
  
"Yes. Cylons," the woman said bitterly. She remained silent for a moment, her thoughts directed inward.   
  
Starbuck, his eyes adjusted to the dim light, gazed around him once more. Besides, the woman, he could see four other humans, two young men barely beyond adolescence, an older man, and a young woman. All wore tattered clothing and bore the effects of an imprisonment without proper care. The face above him was probably about his age, but it was difficult to be certain. Yet, he noticed a fire in her eyes; as physically exhausted and battered as she might be, she was not defeated. He could tell. "What's your name?" he finally whispered.  
  
"Megan," she answered. "And I see that you are a Colonial warrior." The bitterness was still there, Starbuck realized, and some of it was directed at him.  
  
"My name is Starbuck," he said quietly. "What happened here?"  
  
Megan sat back and glanced at the others. "About a yahren ago," she said at length, "the tinheads invaded our world here. Back then, we had five thriving settlements. We were farmers and of no possible threat to the Cylons. Yet, they came and destroyed our settlements, burned our crops and supplies, murdered as many people as they could. Anyone they managed to capture, from the very old to the youngest."  
  
"I'm sorry," Starbuck whispered. "Did you have communications? To ask for help?"   
  
"Yes. And we did," she answered. "But no one came. No one. Apparently, isolated outposts did not rate the protection of the Colonies – or the assistance of Colonial Warriors."  
  
"I'm sorry," Starbuck said again, and he was. He could not fault her for her bitterness. And he could offer no explanations.  
  
"What's done is done," Megan said, her expression softening again. She sighed and rose to her feet, pacing as she spoke. "Since that time, we, the survivors, regrouped and went into hiding. And we have been fighting to reclaim our world. It has taken almost a yahren, but little by little, we have ambushed their patrols, destroyed their resources, and have reduced their numbers to what remain in this fortress. Why reinforcements were never sent, I'm not sure. But they weren't. So we have been slowly taking our revenge and taking back our world."  
  
Starbuck glanced at the faces around him. "How . . .?"  
  
"How were we captured? Carelessness. The five of us were looking for food. And they caught us. Instead of killing us, they brought us here. That was about three sectars ago. They keep us as a 'deterrent' against attacks. Hostages, I guess, would be the word." This time she looked disgusted at herself.  
  
"Has it deterred your people?" Starbuck asked.  
  
"No, only slowed them. I believe they are more careful, now. More methodical." She glanced at her silent companions. They seemed wary, willing to let her speak. Starbuck sensed that she was and had been a leader to them. "Though the tinheads tell us nothing, we hear the explosions. And –" she pointed towards the window, "we know that they have moved all their petro supplies within the fortress walls. That had been an objective of ours." She gave a resigned smile. "It is only a matter of time before we end this – one way or another. Unless things have changed drastically in our absence, our people will be planning an all-out assault on this fortress soon."   
  
Starbuck cautiously, slowly began to pull himself to a seated position, but Megan stopped him. "No, you must stay lying down!" she whispered fiercely.  
  
Surprised, he put his head back down against the makeshift pillow. "Why?" he asked. "I'm feeling better."  
  
"If the tinheads see you awake, they will take you, and they won't bring you back. I'm certain that the only reason they put you with us was so that we could heal your wounds."  
  
"Ah," said Starbuck, "so it's in my best interest to *not* get better." He grinned knowingly at her.  
  
"Yes," she said, smiling, as well, but then her expression grew serious again. "So how is that you come to us, Warrior?"  
  
"Starbuck," he corrected gently.  
  
"How is it that you come to us, Starbuck?" she repeated, nodding slightly to him.  
  
He sighed. "A lot has changed for the Colonies, too, in the past yahren . . ." Starbuck described the Cylon's treachery at the peace conference and the fate of the twelve Colonies. He saw the horror reflected on the five faces around him and he saw the deep anger, a renewed hatred, that their own plight was but a small reflection of the plight of all of humankind. But the most intense reaction came when he explained that it had been a human – the traitor Baltar – that had made the crushing defeat of the Colonies possible. As the lieutenant finished, the scorn burned in Megan's eyes, and she turned away until she could regain her composure.  
  
The silence stretched for several centons. Finally, looking around at his beleaguered cell mates, Starbuck asked, "Who are your friends?"   
  
And for the first time, the older man spoke, quietly. "I'm Megan's brother, Jonas." He nodded towards the young woman, who sat huddled against the wall. "Lily is my daughter."  
  
"Xavier," said one of the young men. He was thin and dark-haired, with gleaming blue eyes.  
  
"Gabriel," said the other, who appeared to be shorter and had light brown hair and dark brown eyes.   
  
Starbuck nodded and was about to ask another question when Lily suddenly raised a hand. "Someone's coming!" she whispered.   
  
"I hope you are a good actor," said Megan as she grabbed the cloth she had been using on his forehead and knelt down next to the lieutenant. "Try not to move."  
  
Starbuck closed his eyes and tried to let himself go limp. Megan placed the cloth across his forehead. A moment later, he heard the heavy clomping of feet, the ceaseless drone that he had come to loathe, and the lilting voice of Spectre. "Have you healed the warrior?" The robot asked.  
  
Starbuck heard Megan climb to her feet and could tell that she was standing in such a way as to block the Cylons' view. "He lost a lot of blood," she said. "And he suffered other injuries – internal injuries – in the crash. We don't have the proper knowledge or supplies needed to help him."  
  
Keys clanked in the door and hinges creaked as the Cylons entered the cell. Starbuck concentrated on staying limp and relaxed. "He need only wake long enough to give me the information I need," said Spectre, his voice sounding none too patient. "And I am not so sure that I can trust you. Perhaps we should consult our own medical data banks."  
  
One of the Cylons pushed Megan aside and started to drag the lieutenant up by one arm. "You'll kill him if you move him again!" Megan said. "That I can promise you!"  
  
The Cylon stopped, still gripping Starbuck's arm, lifting him partially off the ground. With his limp weight pulling him down, he felt the muscles in his arm and shoulder stretching as if to tear.   
  
Spectre was obviously uncertain. Finally, the robot said, "Fine. You have six more centars. After that, we will do what we can or dispose of him. He is useless to us unconscious." The centurion released the lieutenant's arm and he dropped to the hard floor.  
  
"Hey!" Megan was furious. "You'll never get your information if you treat him like that!"   
  
"Six centars," repeated Spectre as the group left the cell and locked the door.   
  
Starbuck heard their footsteps recede, then disappear as another door banged shut. They were alone again. He opened his eyes and rubbed the back of his head. "Frak, that hurt!" he muttered. He eased himself into a seated position and gave his protector a weary smile. "Well, I guess I can take my pick now – torture or death. Hm, lovely."  
  
*****************  
Megan was still glaring at the cell door. "If I could just –" She stopped and turned to face the lieutenant. "Why would they kill you," she asked, "if they want information?"  
  
Starbuck sighed. "They want the last known coordinates of the Fleet," he said. "It's probably too late, as it is. After my patrol was ambushed, the Fleet most likely changed its course and heading – so that no matter what information the Cylons got from me, it wouldn't help them."  
  
"Why not tell them, then?" asked Gabriel, hesitantly. "Maybe they would spare you . . ."  
  
"Would you?" asked Megan, giving him a sharp, disapproving stare. "Would you even consider giving those tinheads what they want?"  
  
He looked away.  
  
"Don't be so hard on him, Megan," Starbuck said quietly. "Pain can influence even the strongest of wills. I mean, I'd like to think I'd rather die than tell them even a lie, if it appeared like I was giving in, but," He gave the young man a sympathetic glance, "saying it is one thing, living it is another."   
  
Megan was still angry, frustrated. "Six centars. What can we do? Maybe it's time we all end this, one way or another."  
  
"Listen," Starbuck said, "my philosophy has always been to take things as they come. And never give up if there's even the remotest chance. I've been in some tight spots before . . . we'll see, I guess."  
  
"That Spectre!" Megan stopped pacing, though, and sat down near the lieutenant.   
  
"Tell me more," said Starbuck, trying to find a way to distract both her and himself from dwelling on what might happen later, "about how you and your people came to live on this remote planet."  
  
******************  
The dim light through the window was waning even more. Nightfall was approaching, as was the deadline. Jonas, by noting the position of the shadows outside the window, had reckoned that the sun would set in about 20 more centons. Starbuck, glancing at his chronometer, informed them that the six-centar period would end in 17 centons – assuming that the Cylons were one, faithful to their word, and two, as punctual as machines.  
  
Starbuck also noted that it had been over a day since he had crashed; he knew that the chance that any rescue attempts would be made were next to nil. Too much time had passed. The Fleet needed to put as much distance between itself and this outpost as possible. It would have been crazy for the commander to risk the safety of the entire Fleet for one man. Even as the gambler that he was, he knew the odds were just too great. So that left him with two goals: do what he could for these people and do his damnedest to frustrate Spectre.  
  
For the past centar, the group had said little. The silence, to Starbuck, was almost as intolerable as the wait. Finally, glancing once more at his chronometer, he said, "Don't they ever feed us? The least they could do is offer a guy a last meal."  
  
He received weary looks. "They bring water once a day, usually," Jonas said, "and food when it suits them. Just often enough to keep us from starving."  
  
"What wonderful hosts," Starbuck said. With a slow, careful effort, he climbed to his feet, leaning against the wall. Gingerly he tested his right leg, gently putting weight on it. With support, he could stand, he decided, but not walk efficiently. "Frak," he muttered.  
  
"What?" Megan asked.  
  
"I just wish I were more mobile. I hate –" He froze at the sound of the door down the passage opening. "Uh, oh." He checked the time. "Yep. They're punctual, I'll give 'em that much." Megan started to climb to her feet, but Starbuck waved for her to stop. "Just stay back," he said to her, "and don't give them any reason to harm you or your people."  
  
"What you planning to do?" she asked skeptically. However, she sat back down next to Jonas.  
  
"Beats me! I'm taking it one moment at a time –" he broke off as Spectre and two centurions came into view, stopping at the cell door.  
  
"Ah, Lieutenant!" said Spectre. "How good to see you on your feet!"  
  
Starbuck leaned against the wall, arms crossed, and smiled. "Nice of you to come visit."  
  
"Does this mean that you are ready to tell me the coordinates of the Galactica? That would be the most logical action for you. I'm sure Megan and her group would welcome your continued company."  
  
"Let me see if I'm following you," said Starbuck. "If I tell you what you want, you won't kill me?"  
  
"Why should we?" said Spectre, the exaggerated tone of his voice belying his words.   
  
Starbuck kept the smile in place and his tone casual. "Well, gee, then it would be 'most logical' for me to give you what you want." Starbuck was watching the excited swirling of Spectre's lights – violet and orange. He was most pleased with himself again.   
  
"Of course!" the robot said, practically bubbling with anticipation.   
  
"Of course," repeated Starbuck. Megan, Jonas, Xavier, Gabriel, and Lily were following the exchange with growing interest.  
  
"So," said Spectre, "what were the last known coordinates of the Galactica?"  
  
"I'm from the Atlantia, remember?"  
  
Spectre's lights froze, then flashed rapidly. "That is not logical. It is foolish to persist with this lie, Warrior."  
  
Starbuck's expression was calm and serious. "I already explained that I'm a deserter who fled the Destruction. My buddy and I have been flying from one outpost to the next. Haven't seen any 'Fleets,' either."  
  
"You lie. Your insignia is that of the Galactica!" Yet, Spectre was obviously confused. Never had he dealt with a human that did not emit physical indications when it was not speaking the truth.  
  
But Starbuck sensed that his game was near an end. He had stalled for almost five centons, but Spectre was getting too flustered. He would buy more time, he knew, if he backed off a bit, let the robot calm down. Still . . . "Okay, okay!" he said. "What is it that you want to know? I forgot." And he burst out laughing.  
  
Spectre's lights blazed in a flurry of crimson. "Guards! Bring him!"   
  
The centurion clumsily rattled the key in the lock. Spectre practically pulled the cell door off its hinges when it finally opened. He was rocking back and forth with anger as the two guards entered the cell. Starbuck remained leaning against the wall, still smiling. Megan looked furious at him for his behavior, while the others just looked terrified. The first Cylon grabbed the lieutenant's arm and yanked him forward.  
  
A loud explosion rocked the fortress, followed immediately by another, then another. The floor shook. Bright flashes like lightening illuminated the interior of the cell.   
  
Spectre whirled, almost lost his footing, and practically screamed, "The petro dump! Those human vermin! Get them! Stop them!"  
  
The centurion released Starbuck, who fell forward in a heap, and the two Cylons rushed out of the cell. The ground was still shaking. More explosions, both near and distant, rattled the walls. Before he left, however, Spectre pulled the cell door closed and locked it with the key, then hurried off, still cursing.  
  
Megan was on her feet, shouting, "Yes! The final attack! Yes!" The group rushed to peer through the narrow window. They were cheering, also.  
  
Starbuck, pulled himself back to the wall and sat up, watching, amazed at his reprieve, however temporary it might be, from Cylon "hospitality." He had been fully ready to torment Spectre until they killed him. Fully prepared to die with that small victory.   
  
The battle raged for nearly ten centons. Smoke began to flow through the window and fill their cell, but even as they huddled close to the ground, coughing, gasping for clean air, their faces showed triumph. As abruptly as they had begun, the explosions ceased, and the night was silent once more, still, eerily calm. The smoke was thinning. Megan and the others climbed to their feet to peer through the window once more. They saw fires still burning but no signs of anyone.  
  
Then the door to the corridor opened and they heard the pounding of running feet – unmistakably human. All gazed in excitement at the cell door. "Marcus?" Megan shouted before their rescuers came into view.  
  
"Megan!" A tall, muscular man, with pale hair pulled back into a braid and rugged features covered by a thick beard, stopped at the cell door. Starbuck guessed that he could have pulled the bars free by hand, if he had tried. However, he waved for those behind him to stay back and said, "Cover you faces!" Using a confiscated Cylon laser, he blasted the cell door.   
  
Megan rushed to greet the man and they embraced. "You did it!" she exclaimed when they finally released each other. The others had crowded around Marcus, and more humans had appeared outside the cell. Starbuck watched the joyful reunion and celebration with a smile, still sitting back against the far wall, still not believing his incredible luck, but also beginning to feel the reality of his situation. Liberated, free – but stranded.   
  
"But what about the tinheads?" asked Jonas.  
  
"Gone! They fled in their last transport like scared daggits!" Marcus said. Then he finally noticed the warrior. "You're here!" he exclaimed. "I have a couple of people who will be eager see you."  
  
Starbuck, surprised and confused, asked, "What do you mean?"  
  
But Marcus had turned and moved back out into the corridor, shouting to someone beyond the far door. A moment later, Starbuck saw two faces he had been convinced he would never see again: Apollo and Boomer. He pulled himself to his feet and shook his head, uncharacteristically speechless.  
  
***********  
The goodbyes had been necessarily short. Despite the great possibility that the Cylons would return, Marcus and Megan and all of the people had unamimously chosen to stay and rebuild their settlements. They had fought for too long, sacrificed too much, to leave. It was not until Starbuck was aboard the shuttle, with Apollo at the controls and Boomer flying escort in his viper, that he finally had the chance to ask the captain: "Why in Kobol's name did you come back?"   
  
"The commander gave us this one shot," Apollo answered. "When the Fleet changed course, he gave us a rendezvous point and time. And we're cutting pretty close."  
  
"It wasn't logical," Starbuck stated. "I can't believe he agreed."   
  
From his position, strapped to a stretcher, he could not see the captain, could not see his expression. "I didn't leave him much choice," Apollo answered eventually. "After leaving Zac behind . . . I said that I couldn't leave you, too, not without at least trying to find you. And we got lucky."  
  
"But how . . .?"   
  
"Luck, buddy, pure luck! We landed near your crash site and feared the worst. Then Marcus found us, took us back to their hidden compound. It turned out that they had been planning to attack the fortress. They told us that they knew the Cylons had taken you there. So we agreed to help them, not sure if we would find you or not."   
  
Starbuck laughed in sheer relief, remembering Spectre's ire. "You almost didn't. You almost didn't!" 


End file.
